


Just a Cough

by Nkala99



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Asthma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nkala99/pseuds/Nkala99
Summary: It was just a little cough.  Sam had much bigger issues to take care of.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 141





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> My third in this fandom, but my first longer fic. A few things to bear in mind:  
> 1.) I don’t have asthma; just some severe allergies. I have had to use an inhaler on occasion, but that’s it. Any medical or personal inaccuracies are all mine.  
> 2.) Upon further research, it seems that the State Department and Commerce Department (if applicable) are responsible for the general structures and content of speeches. For the purposes of this fic, go with me on it including a collaboration between two different countries.  
> 3.) Information gathered about the Philippines has been from Google searches. No offense is intended if I make mistakes.  
> 4.) I have no beta. All mistakes and inaccuracies are mine. My advice is to just go with it and immerse yourself into the story.

**_Monday_ **

“Cathy!”

The woman in question stuck her head in Sam’s office. “You bellowed?”

Sam didn’t spare her so much as a glance, shuffling papers around and moving stacks of books from one side of his desk to the other. “Have you seen my notes on Bautista?”

“The Philippine president?” Cathy asked.

“Yeah,” Sam replied distractedly, moving to the pile of folders on one of his visitor chairs. “I had it on my desk earlier, but now I can’t find it.”

“I haven’t seen it, but I can look for it while you go to Senior Staff,” Cathy told him.

Sam paused in his hunt, glancing at his watch. “When is that?”

“Five minutes,” Cathy told him.

Sam spared a longing glance at the mess around his office, then grabbed his folio. “Thanks; if you find it-.”

“I’ll hold onto it until you get back,” Cathy promised.

Sam flashed her a thankful grin and slipped into the main bullpen.

Even at nearly eight in the morning, the office was bustling with movement. Sam narrowly avoided crashing into an intern, swerving to one side as the door to the executive residence swung open directly in his path. A hand gripped his elbow and tugged him away in the nick of time.

“Careful there, buddy,” Josh’s amused voice cautioned him from his right. “The State Dinner is black _tie_ , not black _eye_.”

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but a strange scent from the executive residence wafted past his nose. He let out an explosive sneeze, followed by several more.

Josh’s amusement faded into mild concern. “You getting sick?”

Sam stopped in the middle of the hall, searching his pockets for a handkerchief. He let Josh gently nudge him closer to the wall while he got himself under control.

“Must’ve been something in the air,” he told Josh. “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?” Josh asked.

“ _That_ smell.”

“There’s no smell.”

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned around Josh, eyes seeking one of his assistants. “Bonnie?”

Bonnie glanced up from her computer. “Yes, Sam?”

“What’s that smell?” he asked.

Bonnie frowned in confusion. “What smell?”

“Pine and cedar incense,” Nancy spoke up before Josh could retort. “It’s supposed to cleanse and purify the air, or something. The new social director decided that the State Dining Room needed purifying in preparation for Wednesday’s State Dinner.”

“And we can smell it from _here_?” Josh asked.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “ _’We’_?”

“They decided to purify the whole executive residence while they were at it,” Nancy told them.

“Guys, Senior Staff in two,” Ginger called.

“Thanks, Ginger,” Sam called as Josh tugged him towards Leo’s office.

They were the last to arrive, Margaret right on their heels to close the door. Toby had claimed his usual seat in front of Leo’s desk and was busy scanning a memo. CJ grinned at them from the couch as they moved to take their customary seats.

“All right,” Leo began. “I know we all have a lot on our plate this week, so let’s get this meeting finished as quickly as possible. First up, the Dinner. Where are we at?”

“I’ve finished the next draft of the president’s toast,” Sam stated. “I’m meeting with the Filipino delegates tomorrow at ten to iron out some of the details, then Toby and I will review it with the president between the photo op and the Q and A with the press on Wednesday.”

“Bring your draft to my office when we’re done here,” Toby told him. “Let’s try and finalize it by lunch.”

“Got it,” Sam replied.

“The press have been briefed on procedures for Wednesday and have already been informed of their group times,” CJ added. “Any takers on what question I’ll be asked the most?”

“The president’s goal in strengthening political relations with the Philippines?” Sam asked.

“The White House’s position on human rights in the Philippines?” Toby added.

“Those, they’ll ask the president,” CJ told them. “Ten to one, after I read your wonderfully crafted press release this afternoon, I’ll be discussing red carpet fashions.”

“There’ve been worse questions,” Leo stated. “It’s softball, but let’s take it when they come. When is the delegation due to arrive?”

“President Bautista and his entourage are scheduled to land this evening at seven,” Josh answered. “Secret service has already outlined their routes. The president’s planning to leave here by six-thirty to meet them when they land, then escort our visitors to Blair House before returning to the Residence for the night.”

Leo nodded. “All right. We had some minor hiccups with the Indonesian State Dinner; let’s try and get this one pulled off without a hitch.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam agreed.

“Too bad we didn’t think of trying that before,” Josh added.

“Let’s make that Plan A from now on,” Sam said, smirking.

“Hey, Heckle, Jeckle, you mind?” Toby groused. “We still have work to do.”

Sam bit back a grin and settled back in his chair. He listened to his friends and colleagues discuss upcoming bills, position statements, and visits with various officials with half an ear. An uncomfortable tightness had begun in his chest, making it a little more difficult to draw breath. He spared a thought for the rescue inhaler sitting in the bottom desk drawer in his office and hoped he wouldn’t need to use it.

Thoughts of his office sent Sam’s mind drifting towards his missing Bautista file. He couldn’t think of what might have happened to it; he was _certain_ he had left it on his desk the night before. He wondered if Cathy had managed to find it in the mess that his office had inadvertently become.

“Sounds good,” Leo stated, drawing Sam’s attention back to the meeting. “Nice work, all of you. Now get outta here; you’ve all got work to do.”

Sam stood and joined Toby as they exited Leo’s office. “Did you know that the White House hired a new social director?”

“We got a new director?” CJ piped up from behind him.

“Apparently,” Sam said.

“Why would I care about a new social director?” Toby asked.

“You’re not curious what happened to the old one?” CJ asked him.

“If their departure didn’t occur as the result of a scandal worthy of front page news, I really couldn’t care less,” Toby stated as they reached the communications bullpen.

The scent of the new incense invaded Sam’s nose, and he sneezed. One hand absently lifted to rub at his chest as another sneeze escaped.

“Bless you,” said CJ. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

Sam shook his head. “Allergies.”

“Grab your notes and come to my office,” Toby stated, breaking away to approach Ginger’s desk.

Sam bid CJ goodbye and ducked into his office, closing his door behind him. He stacked his legal pad and the folders he needed on top of his closed laptop, then dug into his desk drawer for his rescue inhaler. Shaking the inhaler, he cast a quick glance at his door, then brought the inhaler to his mouth. 

Relief swept through Sam as the single puff of medicine eased the tightness in his chest. He hurriedly dropped his inhaler back into his desk drawer.

A quick knock preceded his door swinging open as Sam was straightening. Cathy entered the office, holding a blue folder. 

Sam brightened at the sight. “You found it?”

Cathy shook her head. “Sorry, Sam. I got Bonnie to help, but it’s nowhere in your office.” She held out the folder to Sam. “However, I did find it in the printer’s queue and reprinted it for you.”

“You can do that?” Sam asked, taking the folder and flipping it open.

“I can do that _now_ ,” Cathy replied. “One of the tech guys showed me. Unfortunately, your notes and flags can’t be reproduced.”

“No, this is great,” Sam assured her. He added it to his pile of notes and hefted everything into his arms. “You are a lifesaver. Really.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Cathy told him as she retreated to her desk in the bullpen.

Sam grinned as he walked out of his office and into Toby’s next door. Toby was standing beside his desk, reading something in a manila folder, his frown deepening the longer his eyes scanned the contents.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, setting his things down on the coffee table and sitting on the couch.

Toby angled his body towards Sam, eyes still reading whatever was in the folder. “Sam, did you assign the president’s toast to one of the others?”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “A speech _that_ sensitive? Of course not. Why?”

Toby flipped the folder closed and tossed it onto the coffee table in front of Sam. “Because in that folder is a piece of crap that I know for a fact you didn’t write.”

Sam picked up the folder and opened it. A quick scan of the first page later, a wooden expression appeared on his face. Familiar phrases that could only have come from his original Bautista file jumped out at him.

“I’ll take care of it,” Sam stated flatly, closing the file and setting it aside.

“Sam-,” Toby began.

“Toby, I’ll take care of it,” Sam insisted. He passed another folder to his boss. “Here’s my draft.”

Toby met Sam’s gaze for a long moment, then took the folder and opened it. Leaning against his desk, he scanned the draft and began nodding.

“This is more like it,” he stated. “I want to check a couple of points; you brought the file on Bautista?”

“Yeah, right here.” Sam held it up with one hand, using the other to open and log into his laptop.

“Good,” Toby said. “Then let’s go over the points we need to cover with the delegates tomorrow. Josh mentioned he wants to sit in, but you’re in charge of the conversation. You know what we need to say.”

Sam nodded.

“You might also consider taking one of the interns to take notes, just in case,” Toby added.

“I’ll think about it,” Sam promised. He brought up his latest draft on his laptop. “Where do you want to start?”

* * *

Their meeting went well past lunch, but Sam felt satisfaction at having their draft locked in. He was pretty confident that he had accounted for what the Philippine delegation would like to see in the president’s speech, so he decided to reward himself with a trip out of the White House to pick up lunch.

“Cathy, I’m going to lunch,” Sam announced, setting his things back on his desk. “Want me to pick you up anything?”

“Thanks, Sam, that’d be great,” Cathy called back.

Sam grabbed his coat and, after a brief hesitation, retrieved his inhaler and put it in his pocket. Spring had not quite yet arrived in DC, but there was enough pollen in the air to give him second thoughts.

He had just reached the edge of the communications bullpen when a figure moved into his path. Sam halted abruptly, stiffening when he recognized who it was. “George.”

“I’m surprised to see you sneaking out of the building so early in the afternoon,” George Shaw stated. “I would have thought you’d be busy with the president’s toast.”

“I’d hardly call it ‘sneaking’ when I walk out the front door in full view of the entire bullpen, but I guess proper word choice is hardly a concern of a writer,” Sam snarked.

Only a slight tightening of the corners of his eyes betrayed that the barb had struck. “If proper word choice is the only qualification you concern yourself with, then perhaps it’s time to consider someone eminently more qualified for the role of Deputy Communications Director,” George retorted.

“I’m sure Toby Ziegler would appreciate your opinion,” Sam said drily. “Speaking of which, Toby found a draft for the State Dinner toast on his desk after Senior Staff this morning. Know anything about that?”

George shrugged. “I’m sure on a team of writers that you’re not the only one able to string together a couple words.”

“See, the thing is, the draft also happened to use some phrases that could only have come from my personal file,” Sam pressed. “The same file that went missing from my office between last night and this morning.”

“Can’t help you with that,” George said airily. “Although misplacing important files? That doesn’t exactly inspire my confidence in you, does it? I wonder if others feel the same.”

“Well, thank God I don’t depend solely on your confidence,” Sam shot back. “And I’ll thank you to stay out of my office when I’m not in it.”

“Careful, Sam,” George warned. “You wouldn’t want to accuse people of wrong doing without any proof, now would you?”

He smirked and walked past Sam, bumping into his shoulder intentionally. Sam turned and glared after him just before his eyes slid beyond George to spot Toby watching from the door of his office. The look on Toby’s face was calculating.

Sam felt his cheeks warm in a blush as he winced. Turning, he continued out of the bullpen, hoping to avoid a confrontation with Toby and knowing that he was only delaying the inevitable.

* * *

Toby stood in his deputy’s doorway, studying the younger man as he pored through several reports on his desk. It was late; way past quitting time. The upcoming State Dinner had everyone working longer hours to prepare for it, but Toby knew for a fact that Sam was working on a report that wasn’t due for another week.

He’d seen George Shaw speak to Sam earlier that day, but had been too far away to hear what had been said. Toby didn’t need the words; George had made no bones about his goal of taking over Sam’s job. That would happen over Toby’s dead body, but if George was harassing Sam, there’d be hell to pay.

“Sam? A word?” Toby finally spoke up, stepping into Sam’s office.

Sam looked up, blinking owlishly from behind his glasses. “Sure, Toby. What’s up?”

Toby folded his arms. “George Shaw?”

Anger flitted across Sam’s face before Sam could stop it. He wiped his expression of emotion. “What about him?”

Toby was never one to beat around the bush. “Is he giving you problems again?”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So that _wasn’t_ his draft of the toast sitting on my desk?” Toby asked.

Surprise lit Sam’s eyes. “How-?”

Toby rolled his eyes. “I’ve read enough of his work to pick it out of a lineup. He might have a solid grasp of mechanics, but there is no life to his message. Despite what he thinks, the _only_ thing he has in common with his namesake is, in fact, his name.”

A smile grew on Sam’s face. “I have no proof it’s his. He never outright admitted to the draft, or taking my file from my office-.”

“He _STOLE_ a file from your _OFFICE_?” Toby yelled.

Sam’s eyes widened at his inadvertent slip. “Er . . . no?”

“Sam!” Toby barked.

“I can’t prove anything!” Sam insisted. “A file went missing. The draft had some of my notes in it, but that’s all. It’s not enough to call him in for.”

Toby scowled. “God save us from Congressmen nephews,” he muttered.

“Technically, I think George is Congressman Ward’s _wife’s_ nephew,” Sam said.

Toby pointed at him. “Don’t start,” he growled. “And if he gives you any more trouble, either fire him or let _me_ do it.”

“Congressman Ward won’t be very happy about that,” Sam commented.

“Congressman Ward can kiss my ass,” Toby said. “Go home, Sam. It’s going to be a busy couple of days. Get some sleep while you still can.”

Sam smiled and bookmarked his place in his reports. He quickly packed up and was halfway to his door when he stopped. Turning, he went back to his desk and gathered all of his notes. Carrying them to his filing cabinet, he opened a drawer and set his notes inside, then locked the drawer and pocketed the key.

Better safe than sorry.

_TBC_


	2. Tuesday

**_Tuesday_ **

Sam smothered yet another cough into his fist, then continued rereading his notes for his impending meeting. Though he’d have the papers at hand, he felt better at making sure he knew the material from memory.

A knock on his door frame drew his attention away from his folders.

Josh leaned in his doorway. “You ready?”

Sam glanced at his watch, then shot to his feet. “Yeah,” he said, shuffling his notes and folders together and stacking them on top of his executive folio. He lifted the stack into his arms. “They here already?”

“They were just escorted into the Roosevelt room,” Josh told him.

“Everything go all right last night when they arrived?” Sam asked, joining Josh and starting the short trek to the Roosevelt room.

“What did you hear?” Josh asked.

Sam coughed into his arm, juggling his folders and folio. “Er . . . nothing.”

Josh gave him a small grin. “Then it went well.”

Sam shook his head ruefully. He opened his mouth to reply when several more coughs escaped. Just as Sam shifted his armful to cover his mouth, someone moved into his path.

Only Josh’s quick reflexes kept Sam on his feet, but only just. Papers and folders flew out of Sam’s arms and scattered all over the floor.

Sam regained his footing, bracing himself on Josh, then turned to see George Shaw shaking his head and staring at the mess on the floor.

“Smooth,” George commented, his tone carrying only a hint of a bite. “You should really pay attention to where you’re walking.” He crouched down and began to grab at several sheets of papers, stacking them.

Sam felt Josh bristle under his hand, but squeezed his friend’s arm before kneeling down and joining George in straightening the mess. Josh and a couple of assistants helped seconds later, passing papers around and sorting them into their original piles. George lifted his own stack and stood, not bothering to offer another word as he strode into the communications bullpen.

Josh frowned thoughtfully after him. “Nice guy,” he muttered.

Sam nudged him. “Forget it. C’mon, we need to get moving.”

The three delegate from the Philippines were standing on the other side of the room, chatting quietly, when Sam and Josh finally arrived. As soon as the door to the Roosevelt room swung open, the delegates turned and approached the conference table.

“Good morning,” Sam greeted, setting his papers on the table and stretching a hand out. “I’m Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director for the White House. This is Joshua Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff. Thanks again for agreeing to meet with us this morning.”

The older of the two men with silver hair and laugh lines around his eyes shook Sam’s hand. “I’m Emilio Ramos, Executive Secretary to President Bautista.” He gestured to his two colleagues. “This is Benito Garcia, managing director for our Political Affairs office, and Gloria Aquino, managing director from our Social Policy Office.”

Handshakes and welcomes exchanged, Josh gestured to the chairs. “Please, have a seat. How was your trip?”

“It was quite pleasant, despite its length,” Ramos replied. “We appreciate your accommodating us and moving our meeting to now.”

“Twelve hour jet lag is no one’s friend,” Josh joked.

The easy atmosphere shifted to something more businesslike as everyone took their seats. Sam crossed his hands over the papers in front of him, smiling and making eye contact with each of the three delegates.

“First, I want to express President Bartlet’s appreciation for President Bautista’s willingness to meet and discuss the possibility of reaffirming relations between our two countries,” he began.

“A first of many meetings, we hope,” Gloria Aquino chimed in from Ramos’ right.

Sam’s smile widened, and he nodded. “We hope so, too.” He consulted the first paper on the stack before him. “We understand from our State Department that you and President Bautista wanted assurances that, in the interest of renewed friendship, we ensure our presidents’ toasts accurately reflect the ideals being discussed.”

“Relations between our countries has become rocky in the last few years,” the man on Ramos’ left stated. Unlike Ramos and Aquino’s relaxed and open demeanors, Benito Garcia’s body language was stiff and forbidding. “Your last president openly, er . . .” Garcia glanced at Ramos. “ _Pagsisiyasat_?”

“Censure,” Aquino told him.

Garcia nodded and turned back to Sam. “Your last president openly _censured_ President Bautista’s policies regarding our methods dealing with crime.”

Ramos’ hand lightly settled on Garcia’s wrist, then retreated. “Regardless of words exchanged in the past, we did not come to be berated by your country. We are here on equal ground, and wish to leave the same way.”

Sam nodded, smothering a cough into a fist as he shuffled through his papers. “I can understand where you’re coming from, and I can assure you that the last think _anyone_ wants is to undo all of the work it took for us to get to this point. I have notes from my State Department along with the points President Bartlet will be speaking to during the dinner tomorrow night. I’m sure you have some notes as well; let’s start at the beginning and see where we get.”

Ramos nodded and favored Sam with an approving smile.

The meeting progressed at a snail’s pace as both sides hashed out various details to their satisfaction. Sam ignored the slowly building pressure in his chest, intent on making sure that the meeting came to a successful conclusion. He drained several mugs of coffee, using the caffeine to fight back the symptoms. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice him struggling.

About an hour and a half into the meeting, Sam trailed off mid-sentence as he shuffled through his papers, hunting for his notes on the Philippines’ emerging independence from the United States. A second look confirmed the gnawing anxiety in his gut; his notes were missing.

“Problem?” Josh asked lightly.

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden fit of coughs came out instead. It took several moments for Sam to wrangle himself under control. He cleared his throat and drained the last of his coffee. “I apologize.”

Ramos waved a hand, brushing the words away. “No apology necessary. Perhaps this is a good time to take a break?”

“Of course.” Josh waved at the window, and an intern stepped inside. “Chris, can you get Donna and Ginger?”

Chris nodded and hurried away.

Josh turned to the delegates. “Donna and Ginger can help get you anything you need. Will you excuse me and Sam for a minute?”

At Ramos’ nod, Josh stood and led Sam out of the room. Ginger hurried past them in the doorway, slipping into the room before the door closed.

“What’s up?” Josh asked.

Sam rubbed his forehead. “I’m missing my file on the Philippine independence. I know I had it when I left my office.”

Donna’s arrival paused their conversation. “Josh?”

Josh jerked his head towards the Roosevelt room. “We’re on a break. Can you see if they’re hungry? It’s almost lunch and we’re not quite finished.”

Donna nodded. “Also, Senator Clark returned your call. He’d like a call back, but I left his message on your desk.”

“Thanks, Donna. I’ll call him back in a second.”

Once Donna walked past them and into the Roosevelt room, Josh focused his attention back on Sam. “Could that guy that crashed into you earlier have walked off with it?”

Anger flickered in the pit of Sam’s stomach at the innocent remark. He forced it down. “Yeah, probably.” He erupted into another coughing fit, then cleared his throat. “I can print another copy in my office.”

“Okay.” Josh clapped him on the shoulder. “And see if Cathy can scare up some cough drops for you, huh?”

Sam nodded wordlessly and hurried back to his office. The instant he sent his file to print from his laptop, he dug his rescue inhaler out of his desk drawer and sucked in a dose.

The tightness in his chest eased, but not by much. Shaking the inhaler again, Sam drew in another mouthful of medicine and waited as long as he could stand for it to take effect.

The pressure didn’t go away, but Sam decided he could handle a slight weight far more than a slowly increasing vise. Dropping the inhaler back into his desk drawer, Sam retrieved his notes from the printer and hurried back to the meeting.

Josh hadn’t returned from his office, likely still in the middle of his phone call. Donna and Ginger were also missing, along with Aquino. Garcia was speaking rapid-fire Filipino into a cell phone on the far side of the room while Ramos stood at the conference table, pouring himself a glass of water.

Sam smiled in greeting and returned to his seat, setting his notes down. “Do you think you’ll have some time during your visit to take in some of the sights here?” he asked Ramos politely.

Ramos sat back down across from Sam, eyeing him carefully. “President Bautista’s schedule is very busy, but I think we have some time set aside near the end of our visit to do just that. I am very interested in visiting your National Archives.”

Sam nodded. “It’s one of my favorites, too. I highly recommend it. That and any of the Smithsonian museums are always worth the trip.”

Ramos sipped his water. “I will add that to my list. Thank you.” He hesitated for a moment. “Forgive me if this is too personal to ask, but how long have you had asthma?”

Sam jerked in surprise, knocking over his empty coffee mug. The noise drew Garcia’s attention from his phone call, his eyes casting an assessing look over Sam before returning to his conversation.

“I have surprised you,” Ramos stated as Sam righted his mug. “I apologize.”

“No, I . . . it’s okay,” Sam replied. “How, uh . . . how did you know?”

“My daughter,” Ramos offered. “After a while, you tend to notice the symptoms fairly quickly. I heard your breathing change the longer we spoke, and the way you were coughing was very distinctive.”

Sam’s cheeks flushed. “I see.” He absently shuffled his papers together. 

“You don’t wish to talk about it?” Ramos asked mildly.

Sam thought about the question for a moment. “I don’t usually,” he admitted. “I’m not ashamed or anything, I just . . .” He sighed. “I grew up in California. When I moved across the country for college, I didn’t react well to the air here.”

Ramos nodded. “Ana was born with it.” He tipped his head to one side. “It was worse when she was a child, but as she grew older she had less attacks. Some things will still trigger an episode, though.”

Sam returned the nod. “It’s harder when the seasons change, and different plants pollinate the air, but for the most part it’s manageable.”

Their conversation paused as Aquino returned with Ginger. Donna was right behind them with a fresh platter of pastries, which she set on the table.

“Josh had to go take care of something on the Hill,” she told Sam. “Are you okay to finish on your own?”

“Of course,” Sam replied, smiling. “We shouldn’t be too much longer. Thanks, Donna.” He turned to the three delegates as they resumed their seats. “Shall we continue?”

* * *

Sam leaned back in his chair and wearily rubbed his face. The word document on his laptop stared at him, unfinished. Sam was pretty sure that his cursor was mocking him.

The meeting earlier had finished on a good note; even Benito Garcia had expressed his satisfaction with how it had turned out. Sam chose to ignore the grudging acknowledgement and simply counted it as a win.

Several coughs slipped free amidst a weary sigh. Another dose from his inhaler earlier that afternoon didn’t seem to be doing much to clear up the tightness in his chest. Sam hoped that whatever was causing it would pass quickly; he had too much on his plate this week to deal with feeling ill on top of it. 

Sam glanced back at his laptop and at the unfinished speech waiting patiently for him. In spite of successfully hashing out the details with the Filipino delegation, and despite getting clear guidelines from his follow-up meeting with Toby, the words just wouldn’t come. Sam didn’t want to spend the night in his office, especially with the State Dinner the following evening, but it was looking more and more likely with each passing hour.

The bullpen outside his office was uncharacteristically silent, but Sam could hear faint rumbles of conversation further down the hall. Deciding a break was well in order, Sam stood and moved towards the noise to investigate.

His feet carried him through the silent corridors of the West Wing and through an open door leading into the Executive Residence. Faint wisps of the pine and cedar incense that had been taunting him wafted past his nose, and Sam instinctively cleared his throat at the responding tightening he felt in his chest.

Maintenance staff bustled before him, moving tables and chairs, tapestries, and decorations at the direction of an unfamiliar woman standing in the eye of the maelstrom. Sam stepped into the room, smiling and nodding at an occasional familiar face. His eyes took in the decorations that reflected the culture of the Philippines, his brain analyzing the input and sparking new ideas for his unfinished speech.

“Sam?”

Sam turned away from examining a statue and found Abbey Bartlet behind him. “Mrs. Bartlet? I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Abbey smiled and gestured to the room at large. “Last minute adjustments,” she told him. “One of the many expectations in my role as First Lady.”

“It looks like it’s coming together really well,” Sam said. “The decorations look great.”

“Thank you,” Abbey replied. “You know, I’d probably say something about the inherent sexism of the expectation that the wife be responsible for decorating and hosting these events if I didn’t know for a fact that my husband would do a far worse job.”

Sam chuckled. “I don’t know; I heard somewhere that he baked for your daughter’ school fundraisers.”

One of Abbey’s eyebrows lifted. “You clearly didn’t hear what happened during _or_ after,” she said, an amused smirk curling her lips. “What do we owe the pleasure of your company? I would have thought you’d have gone home by now.”

Sam’s smile turned rueful. “I thought I’d take a break and see what the commotion was all about,” he answered. He coughed, clearing his throat, and coughed again. He winced at the burn he felt in his chest. “I, uh . . . I’m finished the president’s toast.”

Abbey’s expression shifted to one of concern. “Are you feeling all right, Sam?”

Sam straightened. “Of course,” he replied. “It’s just a cough. I must have a frog in my throat or something.”

A loud clatter, followed by the sound of breaking glass, saved Sam from Abbey’s considering look. Both turned to watch as the woman who had been barking orders stood over a young man, yelling about carelessness.

“Perhaps hiring a new social director right before a State Dinner wasn’t the best idea,” Abbey stated to Sam. “Excuse me.”

Sam nodded as Abby moved to smooth ruffled feathers. Leaving the staff to handle the cleanup, Sam returned to his perusal of the decorations in the hopes of finding much-needed inspiration for the toast.

The glint of light on glass captured Sam’s eye, and he moved towards three delicate-looking glass jars. They were different sizes but had the same shape that reminded Sam of antique lamps. At first glance they appeared to be a dark gray, but as Sam shifted from one foot to the other, different ripples of blue and purple emerged. As he leaned closer for a better look, a faint mist suddenly rose from the tops of all three, dispersing into the air.

Sam sucked in a noseful of pine and cedar mist and immediately fell into a coughing fit. He stumbled back several steps from the jars and doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees. Unlike before, the coughing continued and Sam tried to suck in lungfuls of air, sparking panic in his stomach. The harder he worked to breathe, the higher his panic began to climb.

“Sam!” Hands appeared on Sam’s shoulders. One moved to list his chin. Through streaming eyes, Sam saw Abbey’s mouth moving, but in his terror, he couldn’t hear the words. It took another agonizing moment for his ears to catch up.

“ . . .ler?” Abbey said. “Sam! Do you have your inhaler?”

Sam gave an aborted nod. “Desk . . . drawer,” he gasped out between coughs.

Abbey looked over his shoulder. “Jack! You heard him!”

Sam could hear footsteps running, growing fainter with each passing second, but it took too much effort to turn his head and see who it was. 

“Okay, Sam, you’re doing just fine.” Abbey’s brusque tone cut through Sam’s panic like a knife. “We’re going to move you to a chair now, okay?”

New hands gripped Sam’s arms. Sam stumbled as he was half-carried across the room away from the jars and settled into a chair. Abbey dropped into a chair beside him, two fingers pressed firmly against his pulse point in his right wrist. Sam’s coughs slowly eased as his panic lessened, his breaths coming in sharp gasps.

“Good boy,” she said absently, checking her watch and glancing at something behind him. “Keep calm; you’re doing great.”

The running footsteps returned, this time growing louder. Abbey reached over Sam’s shoulder, then drew her hand back shaking it rapidly. It wasn’t until she pressed a familiar nozzle to his mouth that he realized his inhaler had arrived. “Deep breath,” Abbey ordered.

Sam struggled to obey, his breath not as deep as he knew it needed to be. Medicine flooded his throat, and he held it there for as long as he could before exhaling shakily.

“More?” Abbey asked.

Sam nodded, his hands reaching up to try and do it himself only to fumble and nearly drop his inhaler. Abbey braced his trembling hands as he took a second dose.

The urge to cough thankfully faded, but his breathing was still labored and wheezy. Sam took a third dose, then fell limply back against his chair, his energy completely sapped.

Abbey relaxed slightly and glanced around at the small crowd that was hovering nearby, fraught with a nervous tension. “All right, everything’s going to be just fine. Jill?”

The social director stepped forward. “Ma’am?”

“Have your staff take five in another room, then finish setting up,” Abbey ordered.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jill replied. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

Sam immediately began shaking his head, struggling to sit up. Abbey placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“That won’t be necessary,” Abbey told her. “Right now, we’re waiting to see if the inhaler worked. My security detail will wait here with us in case it turns out that Sam needs the hospital after all.”

Jill nodded at her words and quickly ushered her staff out of the room.

Abbey sat back in her chair and studied Sam. “I don’t recall you ever mentioning having asthma.”

Sam pulled himself into something better than a weary slouch. “I, er . . . it never came up?”

Abbey’s stern look made him wilt. “Samuel Norman Seaborn, asthma is _not_ something to joke about.”

Sam winced. “I know,” he admitted. “It really _hasn’t_ come up. It’s never been an issue before.”

Abbey narrowed her eyes. “Have you at least told Josh? Or Toby?”

Sam mutely shook his head, avoiding Abbey’s eyes.

Abbey sighed. “Sam, I don’t have to tell you how important it is to let others know that you have asthma. What do you think might have happened tonight if I hadn’t been here?”

Sam hunched his shoulders slightly.

“I’m not saying take out an ad in the Washington Post, but your friends really need to know so that they’ll be in a position to help you when you need it,” Abbey continued. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

Sam fiddled with the inhaler, unable to bear seeing the disappointment in Abbey’s eyes. “It’s really not that big of a deal most of the time,” he said softly. “I’ve always handled it myself. There’s no need to add to anyone else’s stress.”

Abbey leaned forward and lightly touched his hand. Reluctantly, Sam met her gaze.

“Sam, I understand better than you think how important appearances are,” she stated gently. “I get it. But this isn’t like adding another task to Toby’s plate because you were unable to finish it. It’s not a reflection on your ability to be independent. And it isn’t going to prevent you from executing your duties for my husband. This is your _life_ we’re talking about here. How do you think your friends would feel if you died because none of them knew what to do, let alone knew that you needed help?”

Sam winced.

Abbey’s hand squeezed Sam’s. “Tell them, Sam. They need to know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam croaked.

Abbey patted his hand and stood. “Okay. I have a dinner party to finish preparing for. Jack will escort you back to your office. I’d recommend going home immediately, but I also know that that order would go in one ear and out the other with an unfinished speech on your desk.”

Sam smiled faintly and rose to shaky feet.

Abbey turned to the secret service agent standing behind Sam’s chair. “Jack, please escort Sam to his office. When he finishes his speech, please call for a cab and make sure he goes home.”

“Yes ma’am,” Jack answered.

Abbey fixed a stern eye on Sam. “No _other_ work, Samuel. Finish the toast and go home.”

“Yes ma’am,” Sam replied. “Er, Mrs. Bartlet? Thanks.”

Abbey smiled softly and squeezed Sam’s arm, then turned to track down the social director and her staff.

Sam turned to meet Jack’s eye, nodding as Jack gestured for Sam to precede him. Sam obeyed, gripping his inhaler tightly in his right hand.

The annoying twinge in his chest continued to taunt him.

_TBC_


	3. Wednesday

**_Wednesday_ **

A fit of congested coughing woke Sam thirty minutes before his alarm was due to go off. Sam curled up on his side, riding it out before flopping listlessly on his back. He blinked blearily up at his bedroom ceiling, listening to himself wheeze and feeling his lungs work to pull in air.

A nebulizer treatment was probably overdue, but Sam just didn’t have any time to spare. With the State Dinner that evening and the final draft of the toast due to Toby first thing, Sam needed to get moving now.

“Tonight,” he promised himself out loud. “Neb tonight. Dressed now.”

Even with the slight head start that morning, Sam only just made it to his office on time. Toby was already in his office, and as soon as he spotted Sam, he bellowed for his deputy.

Sam dropped his briefcase in his chair, tossed his coat on top of it, and grabbed his finished draft. He hurried next door. “Got it right here,” he said, waving the folder and holding it out.

Toby took it, running an appraising eye up and down Sam’s form. “How late did you stay?”

Sam shrugged and sat in the nearest chair. “I’m not sure. Why?”

“You look like hell,” Toby replied bluntly.

Sam smiled. “Aw, thanks, Toby,” he said. “I knew you cared!”

Toby rolled his eyes and opened the folder to read Sam’s draft. The two lapsed in a companionable silence, broken occasionally by a barely-smothered cough from Sam.

The first few coughs passed by unacknowledged. By the fifth, Toby lowered the folder and leaned over to find an assistant outside of his door. “Bonnie! Can you bring Sam a bottle of water, please? And find him some cough drops?”

“I’m fine,” Sam immediately protested.

Toby shook his head. “You _sound_ fine,” he retorted sarcastically. “You getting sick?”

“No,” Sam answered. Unbidden, Abbey’s warning from the previous night filled his ears. He cleared his throat. “I, uh . . . I’m just having a little trouble with my breathing.”

Bonnie arrived in the office, handing Sam a chilled bottle of water and a handful of cough drops. Sam smiled and thanked her, cracking open the lid of the bottle and taking a cautious sip.

Bonnie turned to Toby. “Charlie asked me to pass on that the president will meet with you in the Oval Office instead of the Mural Room later.”

Toby nodded. “Thanks, Bonnie.” He refocused his attention on Sam as Bonnie slipped out of the room. “Better?”

Sam nodded, taking another sip of water.

“Good,” Toby continued. “CJ’s got us about forty-five minutes around lunchtime to go over the toast with the president. Between this meeting and that one, I need you to finish drafting CJ’s press release about the upcoming talks and the information for the press packets. You’ll need to talk to Josh and clarify what gets released and when.”

Sam nodded, grabbing a spare legal pad from Toby’s desk to jot notes onto. “I’ve got Simmons over at State ready to greenlight the messages.”

“Pull anyone you need from the team on this,” Toby instructed. “We’ve got everyone working on general research and position statements that will undoubtedly swamp us once these talks conclude, but I don’t want our current momentum getting away from us.”

“Got it.” Sam finished scrawling on the legal pad, then looked up. “Let’s get this toast locked in."

* * *

All thoughts and concerns about his asthma faded to the back of Sam’s mind, crowded out in the wake of the sheer volume of work that descended on him. The intricate wording required of each sentence Sam wrote slowed him down significantly, barely giving him time to think. By the time their meeting with the president had arrived, Toby had nearly needed a crowbar to pry Sam away from his desk.

“Let’s go!” Toby barked as Sam grabbed his folio and the legal pad he was currently working on. “We miss this window with the president, I’m assigning you the next month’s worth of budget statements for the Hill.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Sam leaped up, only stumbling slightly as his feet tangled with the legs of his chair. He balanced his legal pad on top of his folio and scratched out a few more words as he followed Toby out of his office and down the hall. “Almost done . . .”

“Toby?”

Toby stopped abruptly at his name. Sam, his attention on the legal pad, collided into him with a startled _oomph_. Toby spared him a quick, annoyed look before turning to see who had called him.

George Shaw was standing beside the bullpen’s printer, holding a stack of papers which he extended to Toby. “I took the liberty of crafting some messages and releases about our talks with the Filipino delegation,” he stated. “Seeing how swamped the department has been, I thought you could use the extra hand.”

Toby stared down at the papers without taking them, then narrowed his eyes at George. “I thought I assigned you the position statement on global warming and the upcoming summit on climate change,” he said flatly.

“You did,” George confirmed. “I delegated it to Ed and Larry. I figured you would need more help on the press releases for the State Dinner, since Sam’s spent all of his time working on just the president’s toast.”

Sam’s jaw dropped in shock at the bold statement.

“Who gave you permission to pass your assignment on to someone else?” Toby asked, his tone deceptively mild.

George frowned slightly, pulling his handful of papers back towards his body and hefting them nervously. “I noticed how much Sam was struggling with his assignment, and I know we were pressed for time to get everything done, so I made the call. The _right_ call.” He held the papers out again.

Anger and embarrassment warred for dominance in Sam. His mouth snapped shut.

“Did I miss a meeting with Senior Staff where you were promoted to Communications Director?” Toby demanded, his voice rising with each word. “Where the hell do you get off _questioning my directives_?”

Shock flashed across George’s face, and he stumbled back a few steps. “What? No! I-.”

“Last time I checked, _you_ worked for _me_ , and not the other way around!” Toby continued.

“Yes, of course,” George stuttered. “I just-.”

“The next time I give you an assignment, you _do that assignment_!” Toby thundered. “If you don’t like it, I’ll be happy to show you the door!”

George jerked back in shock at Toby’s fierce tone. “Yes, o-of course. I understand.”

“You damn well better!” Toby glanced at his watch. “Dammit! Sam, we’re late. Let’s go.”

Sam followed Toby, unable to think of a single thing to say about what had just happened. It was just as well, since Toby didn’t appear to be in a mood to speak.

Charlie was just exiting the Oval Office when they arrived. He nodded at Toby and Sam. “He’s ready for you.”

Toby breezed past Charlie and into the Oval Office. Sam winced, muttering his thanks to Charlie as he followed.

Bartlet was looking through several messages that had been waiting for him on his desk as Sam arrived. He joined Toby in the seating area in the center of the room and waited patiently for the president to join them.

“Two and a half hours,” Bartlet was saying. “I swear, I’m going to still be seeing those camera flashes a week from now. At least President Bautista has a sense of humor.”

“That always helps, sir,” Toby commented tonelessly.

Bartlet looked up at Toby over his glasses. “Is that sass I’m hearing?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Of course not, Mr. President,” Toby replied.

“Hmm.” Bartlet’s eyes shifted to Sam. “What do you think, Sam?”

Sam blinked. “As long as I’ve known him, Toby’s _always_ appreciated a sense of humor.”

Bartlet chuckled and shook his head as Toby shot Sam a scowl. “All right,” he said, moving from behind his desk. He sat in his usual chair, gesturing for Toby and Sam to join him. “What have we got?”

Toby grabbed a folder from Sam’s folio and passed it to the president. “Your toast for tonight, Mr. President. And a final review of your statements for your Q and A with President Bautista this afternoon.”

Bartlet had opened the folder, but groaned once the rest of Toby’s comment registered. “You and CJ drilling me yesterday wasn’t enough torture for you?”

“Mr. President, yesterday you praised the foresight of the Philippines’ economic stimulus act from five years ago,” Toby pointed out.

“It was an inspired attempt to help their people,” Bartlet insisted.

“Made by the previous president, who was ousted from office when it became apparent that the money was being funneled into his personal account and nearly bankrupted their entire country!” Toby argued.

“The idea had merit,” Bartlet said.

“Maybe we should avoid sensitive topics while trying to rebuild our relationship with the Philippines,” Toby suggested.

Bartlet raised a hand in surrender. “Fine, fine. Any other potential land mines I should be aware of?”

“Yes sir,” Sam spoke up. He juggled his legal pad and folio, opening the folio to dig out the summary he had typed of the notes he had taken during his meeting with the Philippine delegates the day before. He passed his summary over to Bartlet. “There are no major surprises, but we might want to tread carefully around their latest crime and drug policy.”

“Not exactly leaving me a lot of wiggle room,” Bartlet commented, scanning the notes.

“Considering the tendency of the press to blow everything way out of proportion, I’d advise you to save the heavier and more controversial topics for the actual talks this week,” Toby stated wryly.

“All right,” Bartlet relented. He turned his attention back to the toast. “Let’s get this down.”

Fortunately, their forty-five minute window with the president was more than enough time to get through everything. Bartlet managed to field their sample questions to Toby’s satisfaction just as CJ began leading staff members in to set up lights and microphones for the Q and A.

“All done and with ten minutes to spare?” Bartlet asked, standing and bringing Toby and Sam to their feet. “Will wonders never cease?”

“We’ll leave you to it then, Mr. President,” Toby stated.

Bartlet nodded, moving to the door to the patio when he paused. “Oh, Sam? A word, please?”

Sam exchanged a puzzled look with Toby but obeyed. Bartlet gestured for Sam to join him outside, moving through the door that had opened upon his approach. Sam followed him, noting the cooler air and taking as deep a breath as his lungs could manage.

“Abbey mentioned your asthma attack last night,” Bartlet stated, pulling out a cigarette but not lighting it. “How are you feeling?”

Sam colored slightly. “Yes, sir. I’m fine. Thank you.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie; his breathing was still labored, but it wasn’t any better or worse since that morning.

Bartlet ran an appraising eye over Sam, considering his answer. Finally, he nodded.

“I know how fast things can happen around here,” he told Sam. “Listen to Abbey; make sure the others know. I don’t want you to need help and not be able to get it.”

Sam’s blush deepened. “Yes, sir.”

Bartlet smiled faintly. “Go on, get out of here. Let CJ know I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Sam answered. “Thank you.”

Sam returned to the Oval Office, barely managing to slow CJ down enough from setting up to pass along Bartlet’s message. Once he was sure CJ had heard him, he slipped out of the office and away from the flurry of chaos.

Bartlet’s words mingled with Abbey’s warnings in Sam’s mind. He knew he should tell the rest of the staff about his asthma, but with the State Dinner just hours away, now wasn’t the time.

“Tomorrow,” he promised himself, heading back to his office and the work waiting for him. “I’ll tell them tomorrow.”

* * *

Despite having walked through the room just under twenty-four hours ago, the transformation the State Dining Room had undergone was remarkable. Sam paused just inside the room and simply took it all in.

The overhead lights had been dimmed, allowing the candles in the table centerpieces to cast their warm glow on the guests. String music floated on the air, winding around every nook and cranny as servers clad in black glided effortlessly through the room, bearing gleaming silver trays loaded with champagne flutes.

To Sam’s relief, the pine and cedar incense seemed to have been cleared out of the room. Another scent had taken its place; something faint and spicy, but it wasn’t strong enough for Sam to identify. Sam was grateful for the change; concern for a repeat of last night had driven him to tuck his inhaler into his pocket in case it was needed, but it would seem luck was with him. The last thing he wanted was to undo everyone’s hard work by having a medical crisis in the middle of dinner.

A hand gripped his shoulder. Sam turned and smiled at Josh.

“Ready, buddy?” Josh asked.

Sam’s grin widened. “For tonight to finally be over? You bet.”

Josh used his hand on Sam’s shoulder to propel his friend into the room. “Hey now, the hard part’s over. Time to relax and enjoy the fruits of our labor.”

He snagged two glasses of champagne off of a passing tray, giving one to Sam and sipping the other.

Sam’s eyes scanned the room for familiar faces, smiling and nodding at a few that he found. He was about to take a sip of his champagne when a cough crawled its way up from his chest. He tried to stifle it, but several more joined in.

Josh looked at him in mild concern. “Still got that cough?”

Sam cleared his throat and sipped his champagne, hoping to quell any future attacks. “Yeah. Went down the wrong tube, I guess.”

Josh’s expression was doubtful, but he let the comment pass unchallenged.

CJ suddenly appeared on Sam’s other side. “Anyone else feel like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?” she asked.

“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?” Josh teased.

CJ fixed him with a stern look. “I’m serious.”

“Q and A not go well?” Sam asked.

“Q and A went _great_ ,” CJ corrected him. “The president- _both_ presidents, actually- were charming and answered the press’ questions flawlessly. I couldn’t have asked for better sound bytes. Do you have any idea how often I get to say that?”

“Well, the law of averages suggests that things can go right every once in a while,” Sam stated. “Maybe we were due our turn?”

CJ shook her head fondly. “Gotta say, Samshine, I do love your optimism.”

“Would it make you feel better if I tell the president to scrap his toast and go rogue?” Josh asked.

“Do it and no one will ever find your body,” Toby stated flatly, arriving beside Josh with a flute of champagne in his hand.

Josh jumped slightly at the unexpected comment. “No need for violence; it was just a suggestion.”

Sam’s chuckles gradually transformed into a mild fit of coughing.

“The president has a tendency to ad-lib his speeches as he sees fit,” Toby reminded him. “CJ, Sam, and I just spent the better part of a week making sure he sticks to the program. If you undo all of our hard work-.”

“Okay, okay!” Josh held up his hands in surrender. “Got it! No more jokes!”

“That’ll be the day,” Toby muttered.

Sam felt his heartrate pick up as his coughs increased in intensity. The familiar sensation of his lungs fighting to work finally registered, and panic began to thread throughout his body.

His friends were frowning at him, moving closer. “Sam?” CJ asked.

A gentle _gong_ sounded in the room, signaling to the guests of the president’s imminent arrival.

“The president’s on his way,” Josh commented needlessly. He studied Sam. “Maybe you should step out, find some water or something.”

Sam nodded. CJ gently rubbed his back, then joined Josh and Toby as they headed closer to their assigned table.

Sam started towards the West Wing, fumbling in his pocket for his rescue inhaler. He managed to gasp in a mouthful of medicine, but unlike the day before, he didn’t feel any easing in the pressure in his chest.

Ignoring the mild looks of concern and annoyance turning his way, Sam stumbled through the door and out of the Executive Residence. He headed for the communications bullpen, but collapsed against the wall halfway there. Bracing his back against the wall, he took a second desperate puff from his inhaler.

Fierce coughs overtook him. Sam slowly slide down the wall to the floor, fighting and failing to control the rising panic in his heart. The panic only made his struggle to breathe worse, his increased breathing failing to take in the oxygen he needed and sending him into an ever increasing vicious cycle.

“Sam?”

Sam rolled his head to his left, unable to find the energy to reply. His eyes widened as he spotted Abbey Bartlet jogging towards him, two agents from her security detail close behind her.

Abbey dropped to the floor at Sam’s side as if she wasn’t wearing a burgundy gown that had to have cost several thousand dollars. “I could hear you from down the hall. Is the inhaler not working?”

Sam shook his head.

Abbey looked up at one of the secret service agents. “Call an ambulance. Asthma attack, severe. Albuterol ineffective.”

The agent nodded, already on the phone.

Sam shook his head, fighting against the restraining hand Abbey placed on his shoulder. “No . . . ambulance . . . cab . . .”

“Don’t talk,” Abbey ordered. “Take another dose from your inhaler. And yes, ambulance. They’ll have oxygen and a nebulizer on the rig. You need help now, not in the hour it’ll take a cab to come get you and take you to a hospital.”

Sam obediently took a third dose from his inhaler. He felt his hands and arms begin to shake, trembling with the increased adrenalin now coursing through his system, helped along by his panic.

Waiting on the ambulance felt endless. By the time the EMTs ran up, led by another secret service agent, Sam was convinced it had taken hours for them to arrive rather than the ten or so minutes it had actually been.

The older of the two paramedics, a man with salt and pepper hair, knelt beside Sam opposite Abbey. “Hi there; my name’s Dan,” he said, reaching out to check Sam’s pulse. “Can you tell me your name, son?”

“S . . . Sam . . .” Sam managed.

“That’s good, Sam,” Dan praised. He turned slightly, accepting the oxygen tank and mask his partner was already holding out to him. “Still talking’s a good sign. To help you out, though, I’m going to put this oxygen mask on you. I know you’re starting to feel sleepy, but stay awake for me, all right?”

Sam nodded. “Kay . . .”

The mask fitted neatly over his nose and mouth. Sam felt the weight of the portable tank settle in his lap.

Dan was talking again, but it was taking every bit of Sam’s energy not to slip into sleep. He heard Abbey’s voice responding to whatever Dan had said and trusted the First Lady to handle everything for him.

A sharp pinch in his right arm brought Sam back into the moment. Watery blue eyes tracked the source to Dan, who was handing his partner an empty syringe.

“. . . take him to GW,” Dan was telling Abbey. “The doctors there will probably want to keep him overnight.”

Abbey nodded. She looked down at Sam and, finding him watching her, patted his shoulder.

“Sam, Dan and Karen will take you to the hospital,” she told him. “I’m sending Jack with you since he was here last night. I’ll meet you there after I talk to Jed.”

Something about her statement made a tiny voice in the back of Sam’s mind protest, but he was having trouble cutting through the fog that was settling over him. Fear was winning out, and he clung to her words for the reassurance they offered.

Abbey gripped his shoulder and smiled at him. “It’s going to be okay,” she told him gently. “You’re going to be just fine.”

Sam nodded, turning control of his fate over to Abbey as the paramedics and secret service agents began preparing to move him to the waiting ambulance.

* * *

To the relief of the White House senior staff, the State Dinner was progressing as planned. Even Toby began to relax, the tension fleeing from his frame once the president had given his toast as written.

As the night progressed, Josh kept trying to catch a glimpse of Sam. He knew how hard his best friend had worked on the speech for that night, and he wanted to congratulate him on a job well done. Guests approaching him for a quick word continued to distract him from his search.

“That’s odd.”

Josh glanced to his right as CJ joined him. “What’s odd?”

“I was sure Abbey was coming tonight,” CJ told him. “But she wasn’t with the president during dinner, and I haven’t seen her.”

Toby joined them, catching the tail end of CJ’s comment. “I heard the president tell Secretary Wallace that she was called away for a family emergency.”

Worry filled CJ’s expression. “One of the girls?”

“He didn’t say,” Toby replied.

Josh’s eyes sought out the president, who was speaking quietly with Leo. Concern was on the two men’s faces as Leo nodded along with whatever he was being told, interjecting his own comment or question periodically. “It can’t be too serious, whatever it is. He’s still here.”

His eyes moved from the president to Emilio Ramos, who was making his way in their direction. Josh straightened instinctively, pasting a welcoming smile on his face. “Secretary Ramos, good to see you again.”

Ramos returned the smile. “You as well.” His gaze flickered between Toby and CJ.

“Oh, excuse me, this is our Press Secretary, CJ Cregg,” Josh introduced. “And this is our Communications Director, Toby Ziegler. Sam’s immediate supervisor. Guys, this is Emilio Ramos, Executive Secretary for President Bautista.”

Ramos shook their hands obligingly before turning back to Josh. “I was actually looking for Mr. Seaborn,” he said. “I wanted to offer my congratulations on his speech, and my thanks for working with us.”

“He’d be happy to hear that, and will probably want to express the same sentiments,” Josh replied. “Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Ramos’ eyes reflected his concern. “I do hope he is doing well. I know that the . . . er, perfume in the air always bothered my daughter, too.”

“Perfume?” CJ echoed.

Ramos waved his hand in short circles by his head. “The scent. In the room. We-my president, colleagues, and I- were very impressed with how thorough and authentic the room resembles the ceremonies we hold at home. Decorations, food, and even the perfumes we use during our most important engagements. The scent is very faint, but easily noticed by those of us accustomed to it.”

“Forgive me, sir,” Toby spoke up. “But you said that it bothered your daughter ‘too’?”

Ramos nodded. “My daughter’s asthma always worsens around this perfume. Mr. Seaborn’s was already troubling him yesterday; I hope the perfume didn’t make it worse.”

His eyes appeared to be tracking someone just beyond CJ, so he missed the sudden stiffening of the three bodies before him. He nodded towards someone, then turned back to Josh. “Please pass along my thanks and congratulations to Mr. Seaborn when you see him?”

“Of course,” Josh replied absently, barely aware of the delegate walking away.

CJ grabbed Josh’s arm, squeezing it. “Asthma?” she hissed.

Josh began shaking his head as Toby dragged a hand down his face. “He doesn’t have asthma . . . he never mentioned it.”

“He’s been coughing a lot,” Toby pointed out. A thought struck him, and he paled drastically. “This morning; he said he was having a little trouble with his breathing.”

“But _asthma_?” CJ insisted. “Surely Sam wouldn’t keep something like _that_ a secret from us?”

Toby gave CJ a sardonic glower. “You mean the same kid who conveniently _forgot_ to tell anyone he needed a break from an increased workload right after Rosslyn and ended up collapsed in his office from lack of actual food and sleep after three days going without? _That_ kid?”

“Oh God.” Josh felt horror wash over him.

“What?” Toby and CJ demanded.

“We sent him to get water for his cough,” Josh reminded them. “Before the president’s arrival almost _two hours_ ago! Have either of you seen him since then? Did he ever make it back? What if it _is_ asthma, and he’s alone somewhere, suffocating to death?”

Josh’s horror swept effortlessly over Toby and CJ at the realization. They immediately turned their heads left and right, desperate to catch some glimpse of their friend somewhere in the room.

“We need to find him,” Josh stated. “CJ, you take this room. Toby, we’re splitting up the West Wing. You head towards communications and I’ll take the Oval Office. Whoever finds him first-.”

“Hey!”

Leo abruptly inserted himself between Josh and CJ, his face awash in concern and frustration.

“Leo, we don’t have time right now,” Josh told him. “We need to find Sam.”

“He’s at the hospital,” Leo said shortly. He met each of their eyes in turn. “Did any of _you_ know he had asthma?”

The three staffers froze at the bomb Leo had just dropped in their midst. It took them half a minute to find their voices again.

“He’s at the hospital?” Josh echoed dumbly.

“Which hospital?” Toby demanded.

“How do you know?” CJ asked.

Leo held up his hands. “Keep it down, would you? The president told me.”

“How does _he_ know?” CJ pressed.

Leo glanced around, checking to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “When the president and First Lady were on their way here, they heard him coughing. Abbey went to check on him and found him in the middle of an asthma attack. She had to call an ambulance. Apparently, between last night’s attack and tonight’s, he got sent to the hospital, and Abbey decided to go with him and make sure the doctors had all of the information.”

“ _Last night’s_ attack?” Josh repeated, stunned.

“Leo, _which hospital_?” Toby asked again.

“GW,” Leo finally told him. 

Toby immediately turned and strode towards the West Wing with Josh only seconds behind.

Leo turned to CJ. “Go ahead. I have to stay here, but let him know we’re thinking of him?”

CJ nodded and hurried to catch up with her friends.

* * *

The raised voices and worried demands from down the hall pulled Abbey’s attention away from the magazine she had borrowed from the waiting room. She glanced up at Sam’s sleeping form, thankfully undisturbed by the sudden commotion, and stood.

Josh, Toby, and CJ were crowded around the nurse’s desk, towering over the current nurse on duty and yelling over top of each other for information. Abbey paused for a moment, feeling admiration for the way the nurse held her ground, in no way intimidated by her husband’s staff.

“For the last time,” the nurse told the three of them in a firm tone, “hospital policy-.”

“It’s all right, Tara,” Abbey interjected. She hid her amusement as all three staffers spun to face her in perfect synchronicity. “I was expecting them. I’ll take care of them.”

CJ reached her side first by virtue of her longer legs. “Abbey? Where is he?”

“Is he okay?” Josh added.

“What did the doctors say?” Toby asked.

Abbey beckoned them to follow her. She led them into the deserted doctor’s lounge that had been offered for her use upon her arrival and gestured to the chairs. “Sit.”

Hesitation took over Toby, Josh, and CJ. No one moved.

Abbey put her hands on her hips. “I know you’re worried about Sam, but none of you are going to be allowed to see him until you calm down. Sit.”

CJ was the first to obey. Toby considered his odds in arguing the point, but decided to take the chair beside CJ when he realized that Abbey was immovable on the subject. 

Josh was practically vibrating with tension and fear, his eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Dr. Bartlet-.”

Abbey took his arm and drew him to the sofa, gently pushing him down and sitting beside him.

“Sam is _fine_ ,” she said firmly. “We got him to the doctor in time, and the treatment is working. He’s sleeping at the moment, which is completely normal for what he just went through.”

The news, delivered by a trusted source, took most of the fear from the room. Abbey waited for their relief to sink in before continuing.

“I take it from your reactions that Sam never got around to telling you about his asthma,” she said wryly.

CJ shook her head, confusion marring her features. “Abbey, what _happened_?”

“Based on what little Sam has been able to share, Sam’s lungs were a little more sensitive than normal this week,” Abbey explained. “Something in the air has been triggering minor episodes. We know that the incense that Jill, our social director, was using was one trigger. Sam accidentally got a concentrated noseful of it last night, and that set off a moderate attack. I was there, which is how I found out about Sam’s asthma. After he left the Dining Room last night, I had Jill clear out the incense and air out the entire Executive Residence. What we haven’t worked out just yet was what triggered tonight’s attack.”

“The . . . the executive secretary, Ramos,” Toby began, then fell silent.

Abbey turned to him, taking in his slouched form. His elbows were braced on his knees, his fists pressed to his mouth. “What about him?”

“He mentioned perfume in the room,” Josh recalled faintly. “How it . . . how it made his daughter’s asthma worse.”

“I couldn’t smell anything,” CJ commented.

Abbey mentally sifted through the preparations her staff had made and slowly began to nod. “Okay, that makes sense. I’ll have to check, but I think I remember some ceremonial incense. Since it was a different scent and part of the overall staging of the room, it must not have occurred to anyone to leave it out. I’ll check with Jill on what’s in it and have the doctors add it to Sam’s file.”

“What was different about tonight’s attack?” Josh asked. “Why did he have to come here?”

Abbey reached over and gripped his hand to reassure him. “With two attacks in two days, he would have needed to come in anyway,” she explained. “Either the doctor would need to reevaluate his medication, or Sam would need to adjust his environment, or both. The incense this week triggered mild attacks that were able to be handled with his rescue inhaler on top of the medication he already takes every day. Even the bigger attack he had last night was manageable with the extra puffs on in his inhaler.”

“Why didn’t he just use his inhaler tonight too?” CJ asked.

“He did.” Abbey knew this next part would be hard for Sam’s friends to hear, and she gentled her tone. “Fortunately, Sam was smart enough to have it on him tonight, most likely due to the trouble he had yesterday. He used it several times, and it helped to keep his airways open just long enough for the paramedics to arrive, but it wouldn’t have for much longer than that. The medics put him on oxygen and had to give him a shot of epinephrine to help his airways open up before bringing him here. The doctor has him on IV medication and oxygen for right now. He’s planning to evaluate Sam tomorrow morning to see if he needs any additional intervention. Right now, the doctor is hopeful that Sam can go home tomorrow afternoon, but that depends on how the morning goes.”

Silence fell over the group, each person processing the information. Abbey watched them carefully, knowing that once the shock and fear faded that anger would take over.

To her surprise, Josh found that stage first. He pulled his hand from Abbey’s as he stood and paced the room.

“Of all the _stupid_ . . .” He trailed off, running his hands through his hair. “He could have _died_ tonight!”

“Josh-,” CJ began.

“No, CJ,” Josh cut her off, whirling to face her. “We were _there_. We could have gotten him help sooner if he had told us about his asthma! We might have even prevented his need to come here if we had known! Sam kept his asthma to himself, and he could have _died_!”

“But he _didn’t_ ,” Abbey stated firmly. “There’s no way to know if you could have prevented his attack tonight. Given how faint you say the incense was, it’s likely that he still would have found himself needing medical care.” 

“Would it have been better if one of us knew he needed help?” Josh demanded. “We let him leave the room. He was _by himself_. What if you hadn’t come by? It was by sheer _luck_ that Sam’s still alive! He should have told us! How could he have kept this a _secret_?”

“Sam had his reasons,” Abbey said calmly. “Whatever our feelings, they were valid reasons to him. However, after I spoke with him last night, he _did_ seem to be considering telling all of you. Knowing Sam, it wouldn’t surprise me if he decided to wait until after tonight’s State Dinner was over.”

“Fat lot of good that did him _tonight_ ,” Josh snapped.

Abbey let his anger roll over her, knowing it was born out of concern for his best friend. She was more concerned about Toby, who had yet to speak for several minutes. She could see the anger simmering in his eyes, and she concluded that that particular volcano would erupt within the next day or so.

“Can we see him?” CJ asked.

“No,” Abbey replied.

Three pairs of eyes snapped to her in surprise.

“Why the hell not?” Josh demanded.

Abbey gave him a stern look. “Because you’re angry, and when you’re angry, you yell. Loudly. And say the first thing to come to your mind. Right now, Sam is sleeping. He’s exhausted and trying to recover from an absolutely terrifying ordeal. One, I might add, that he doesn’t have a lot of past experience with. You’re absolutely justified in being mad at him, but he doesn’t have the energy to deal with your anger right now.”

Josh’s shoulders slumped, and he sank back into his seat beside Abbey. All of the fight seemed to drain right out of him.

“ _Please_ ,” he said quietly. “I won’t wake him up. I just . . . _please_ . . .”

Abbey’s heart went out at Josh’s plea. She glanced to Toby and CJ, taking in their hopeful expressions. She sighed and nodded.

“All right,” she relented. “We’ll go and see him. Then we’re all heading back to the White House.”

She saw the rising argument on Josh’s face and shook her head at him.

“You can come back tomorrow,” she told him. “I promise; Sam was so tired after tonight that he’ll sleep through till morning. Get some rest tonight, and deal with this in the morning.”

She stood, bringing everyone else to their feet. Abbey knew that she had quelled their anger for now, but Sam was in for quite an argument once his friends were satisfied that he was on the mend.

A small smirk graced her lips as she led the group out of the lounge and down the hall towards Sam’s room. While the anger would likely last for a couple days, it would eventually fade. When it did, Abbey was looking forward to seeing the Mother Hen phase that would undoubtedly follow. Between Toby’s constant monitoring, Josh’s poorly disguised hovering, and CJ’s ability to pull answers out of anyone, Sam would definitely think twice about withholding important information about his health again.

_TBC_


	4. Thursday

**_Thursday_ **

Awareness crept in slowly, like swimming to the surface of a still pond. Sam’s eyes blinked open wearily, fighting to dispel the sleep fog still wrapped around his brain.

The room he found himself in wasn’t his bedroom in his apartment, but Sam didn’t have the energy to wonder about that. He stared blankly at the wall he faced, an open door showing an occasional person walking by.

The lure of sleep gradually abated. With it went his casual disinterest; as his surroundings began to register in the back of his mind, Sam struggled to sit up.

A woman in purple scrubs appeared in his doorway, pausing when she realized Sam was no longer asleep. “You’re awake!” she greeted, moving to his side. “Good morning! How are you feeling?”

Sam managed to sit up with the nurse’s help. He glanced at the machines by his bed and lightly touched the nasal cannula feeding him oxygen, only to be distracted by the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger. “Um . . . confused.”

The nurse grabbed his chart, jotting down some notes from the machines’ readouts. “Do you remember anything about last night?”

Sam frowned, sorting through memories that were fuzzy and disjointed. “I was . . . I was at work, and I was having an asthma attack . . .”

The nurse nodded and put his chart back.

“I remember . . .” Sam trailed off. A blush rose on his cheeks. He closed his eyes and groaned softly. “Please tell me that I imagined the First Lady sitting in here last night.”

The nurse smiled. “I could, but I’d be lying,” she replied.

“Oh God.” Sam covered his face with his hands.

The nurse patted him on the shoulder. “She was very nice. And very worried about you. She’ll be glad to hear that you’re feeling better.”

Sam dropped his hands, alarm replacing his embarrassment. “You’re not going to call her, are you?” he exclaimed.

“Of course not,” the nurse replied.

Sam sagged in relief.

The nurse’s smile turned mischievous. “Dr. Baines will. Once he finishes his assessment, that is.”

Sam glare half-heartedly at her. 

The nurse only laughed. “Speaking of which, I’ll go and let him know that you’re awake. I’ll also have your breakfast sent while you wait.”

Sam watched her go, his mind spinning at the thought of Abbey Bartlet hovering over him the night before. While he appreciated having her looking out for him, her presence in the hospital would eventually get back to the press. It wouldn’t be long before his friends discovered the truth. He needed to head into the office if he had any hope of controlling what everyone was told about what had happened to him last night.

Glancing around the room, Sam saw a cabinet beside the window on his left and wondered if his clothes were in there. He pulled the nasal cannula from his nose, took off the pulse oximeter and, with a very brief hesitation, slide the IV out of his arm. Tossing his blankets aside, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.

A wave of dizziness crashed over him. Sam’s hands shot out, one latching onto his bed to brace himself as he swayed. He waited a moment for the feeling to pass. One moment passed into two.

After five minutes, the room had finally slowed from spinning to an unsteady wobble. Figuring that it was as good as he was going to get, Sam tried to take a step toward the cabinet.

The room immediately began spinning again. Sam could feel his heart begin to race in panic as he froze, unable to take another step. A voice in the back of his head that sounded remarkably like Toby’s berated him for his foolishness as he slowly started to sink to the floor.

A hand gripping his elbow halted his descent, along with an arm snaking around his waist. Sam wanted to thank his unexpected savior, but the relentless motion of the room was making him feel sick. He closed his eyes, a moan slipping out without permission.

“Easy there,” a soothing baritone voice said close to his ear. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you back into bed.”

The hands guided him back to his bed, helping him to lay down and moving his arms and legs where they wanted him. Sam kept his eyes closed, feeling his IV being reinserted and the pulse oximeter being clipped on his finger. Rather than his nasal cannula, an oxygen mask was placed over his nose and mouth.

“Try and breathe normally,” the voice instructed. “You should start to feel better in a few minutes.”

Sam lay quietly, listening to the faint sounds of the machines monitoring his health along with what seemed to be people moving around the room. As promised, the strange floaty feeling finally faded after a few minutes. Sam cautiously opened his eyes.

A man with blond hair and wearing a white lab coat smiled at him from beside his bed. “There we are. Feeling better, Mr. Seaborn?”

Sam nodded. He squinted at the man, trying to figure out why he looked familiar. “Sam,” he corrected hoarsely.

The man nodded back. “I’m Dr. Baines,” he said. “We met when you were brought in last night, but I’d be surprised if you remembered. You were pretty disoriented. May I ask why you were out of bed just now?”

“. . . have to . . . get to work . . .” Sam replied between deep breaths.

Baines’ eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding, right?”

Sam shook his head. “. . . stuff . . . to do . . .”

“I’m afraid work is going to have to wait,” Baines told him. “Right now, since you’re a little more lucid, I need you to help me answer some questions. You feel up to that?”

Sam shifted to sit up, but Baines placed a hand on his shoulder. He raised the head of Sam’s bed a little higher and placed pillows behind his back and head, allowing Sam to sit up without exerting precious energy.

“Okay,” Baines began. “Based on what Dr. Bartlet shared last night, you had a moderate asthma attack two nights ago from a concentrated dose of incense. Do you remember if you were experiencing any symptoms before that?”

Sam blushed, still embarrassed at having the First Lady fussing over him. “I can’t . . . believe . . . she came here.”

Baines smiled brightly. “Yeah, it was a big surprise for us. We do all the drills with the secret service, but no one really ever expected to need to clear the respiratory ward. Usually trauma and the OR get all the excitement. So . . . symptoms?”

“I felt fine . . . until Monday morning.” Talking was getting easier with the oxygen and medication in his IV working in tandem. “Then I . . . started needing my inhaler.”

Baines nodded. He had Sam’s chart in his hands and was writing something down. “Did it help?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “But I had to use it . . . a few times during the day.”

“Probably due to the incense in the air,” Baines stated. “Dr. Bartlet said her social director started using it on Sunday, so it had twenty-four hours to circulate the building. Tell me about Tuesday.”

Sam had to take a moment to find the memories that Baines was asking for. “I went for a walk to . . . to clear my head. I saw these jars . . . when I leaned in to get a closer look . . . they sprayed this mist in my face.”

The amusement on Baines’ face was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Dr. Bartlet said it took you three puffs on your inhaler to ease the attack. Did you follow up with a nebulizer treatment?”

Sam shook his head. “Was too tired . . . I went to sleep. I was going to . . . last night.”

Baines continued writing, then set the chart aside to meet Sam’s eyes. “What about yesterday?”

Sam sighed. “I woke up with . . . my chest feeling tight. And coughing. But okay. I didn’t need my inhaler as much. I went to the Dinner . . . the room smelled different. I don’t know why, but it did. I started coughing, and I couldn’t stop. I . . . my inhaler wasn’t working . . . I couldn’t breathe . . .”

A soft but insistent beeping from one of the machines sounded. Baines laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder near his neck and squeezed gently.

“Easy,” he soothed. “You’re okay.”

Sam forced himself to calm down, taking measured breaths. The beeping finally stopped.”

Baines squeezed his shoulder again, then withdrew. “Just a couple more things, okay?”

Sam nodded.

“Have you monitored your peak flow this week as soon as your symptoms started?” he asked.

Sam shook his head.

“Anything else about this week I need to know?” Baines pressed.

“No,” Sam replied.

“All right.” Baines picked up Sam’s chart again. “I requested your previous records from your last doctor, a Doctor Roger Hunt in Manhattan. Dr. Hunt’s last notation in your file was over two years ago. I take it that, other than refills for your prescriptions, you haven’t been examined since?”

Sam shook his head, beginning to feel like a child about to be taken to task.

“I am officially transferring you under my care,” Baines informed him. “And before you argue, you should know that I have Dr. Bartlet’s full support.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped.

“According to your records, you have a mild sensitivity to pine,” Baines continued. “I’ve added cedar as a trigger. Dr. Bartlet will be faxing over the list of ingredients in the incense from last night, and we’ll add that as something else to watch for. For right now, we’re going to measure your peak flow.”

“Then I can go home?” Sam asked hopefully.

The hesitation before Baines spoke drained Sam’s hope. “Let’s do the test first before we make any decisions.” He set Sam’s chart back down. “I’ll be right back.” He maneuvered a tray over Sam’s knees. Sam noticed the plate of scrambled eggs and toast and wondered when it had been delivered.

“Eat some breakfast,” Baines told him. “It’ll help you get some energy back. Oh, and one more thing? Before you get any more bright ideas about sneaking out while me back is turned, I feel I should mention that your clothes aren’t in that cabinet.”

Sam’s startled eyes flew up to Baines.

Baines lifted an eyebrow. “Your clothes were still saturated with the incense from last night. What kind of doctor would I be if I fixed you up only to trigger another attack before you set foot out of the room?”

“Where are they, then?” A horribly humiliating thought struck Sam. “Oh God . . . Dr. Bartlet didn’t . . .”

Baines was far too amused for Sam’s liking. “If she didn’t take them, then I think one of your other visitors did.” He headed for the door.

The doctor’s words broke through the embarrassment plaguing him. “Wait!” Sam called. “Other . . . other visitors? Who else-?”

Baines turned at the doorway, pointing at the tray. “Eat,” he ordered, then left.

Sam’s gaze dropped to his tray, his mind whirling with possibilities. He hadn’t been in the Executive Residence when he’d had his attack, he knew that much. Only Abbey knew about his asthma, and she had been with him the entire time. The only way that anyone else would have known to come to the hospital last night . . .

A sinking feeling grew in the pit of Sam’s stomach.

It was too late.

They knew.

Sam didn’t have time to dwell on the ramifications of his asthma attack being made known as a familiar voice called his name. Sam looked up.

Josh paused in the doorway long enough to see Sam awake and sitting up before bounding into the room. In three strides he was at Sam’s side, grabbing Sam and pulling him into a bear hug. Over Josh’s shoulder, Sam watched as CJ and Toby entered, CJ carrying a small paper bag.

Sam patted Josh’s back. “Um . . . hi.”

Josh finally pulled back, his eyes searching Sam’s face as he continued to grip Sam’s shoulders. “How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Josh,” Sam told him.

Josh nodded. “Good.” He released Sam, only to reach out and smack him in the back of the head. “How the _hell_ could you not tell me you have asthma? Do you have _any_ idea the hell you put us through?”

“Hey!” Toby barked. He grabbed Josh by the back of his collar, yanking him away from Sam to Sam’s relief. “We agreed to wait before yelling at him, remember?”

Sam’s relief died a swift death.

CJ elbowed Josh and Toby aside so she could approach Sam. Setting the paper bag on the tray beside his breakfast, she gave Sam a quick hug, then studied his face. “You’re looking a little rough still, Spanky. You sure you’re all right?”

Sam pulled down his oxygen mask. “I’m okay, I promise.”

Toby reached out and promptly replace the oxygen mask over Sam’s mouth and nose. “And what did the doctor say?”

“He said I was better,” Sam stated.

“Uh huh.” Toby was unconvinced.

CJ opened the paper bag and removed a bagel, which she handed to Sam. “I brought you some breakfast from that bakery you like.”

Sam took the bagel, surprised and touched. He gave CJ a shy smile. “Thank you.”

CJ returned the smile, giving in to the impulse to ruffle his hair.

Toby folded his arms. “While you’re eating, you can explain just what the hell you were thinking by hiding your asthma from us.”

Sam pulled his oxygen mask down again and took a bite from his bagel, carefully avoiding the eyes in the room. “I mentioned that I was having trouble breathing,” he said weakly.

“A comment that would have carried a hell of a lot more weight if I knew the one who said it suffered from asthma!” Toby yelled.

“Are we done waiting to yell?” Josh asked.

“No,” CJ said, giving Toby a warning look.

Sam winced, taking a smaller bite of his bagel. “Might as well get it over with,” he mumbled.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Josh demanded. “Didn’t you think we needed to know?”

A scowl passed over Sam’s face. “Sure,” he said bitingly. “It’s not enough that I’m the youngest one on the senior staff. Let’s add asthmatic on top of that. Seriously, it’s a wonder I can even tie my own shoes, let alone hold an important position in the White House.”

Something about Sam’s rant struck a chord with Toby. He dropped his arms and stepped forward. “Why would you think that?”

“I- nothing,” Sam replied. “Forget it.”

“I didn’t think your age was that big of a deal,” CJ commented. “You’re not still getting grief about that, are you?”

“I’m not,” Sam replied. He set the bagel down on the tray. “ _It’s_ not. Really, just forget I said anything.”

“Son of a _bitch_!”

Sam startled at Toby’s sudden exclamation, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Er . . . Toby?” Josh asked.

Toby pointed at Sam, fury blazing in his eyes. He spun on his heel and stormed towards the door, only to stop and stomp back towards Sam.

“I’m going to _kill_ him!” Toby finally declared.

Sam flinched.

Josh and CJ exchanged confused looks. “Something you want to share with the rest of the class?” CJ asked.

Toby ignored her, his eyes boring into Sam’s. “I _told_ you to fire his ass if he started this shit again with you!”

“He didn’t start anything!” Sam protested. “He has _nothing_ to do with this!”

“Maybe not directly, but apparently you were worried enough about him to make sure he’d never find out about it,” Toby pointed out. “ _He_ might think your age matters, but I assure you he’s the only one. You having asthma doesn’t mean _anything_ beyond making sure you’re taking your medicine and still breathing. He might not know about it right now, but the fact that you even _thought_ he’d exploit your asthma as a weakness tells me that it’s way past time for me to do something about it!” He turned and headed for the door again.

“Wait!” Sam cried, alarmed.

“Where are you going?” CJ added.

Toby stopped and faced them. “I’m going to go kick Shaw’s ass, then I’m coming back to finish kicking yours!” he told Sam.

“Who the hell is Shaw?” Josh demanded, his patience running out.

CJ was frowning in thought. “Wait, isn’t that Congressman Ward’s nephew?” Her expression darkened and she turned to Sam. “The one who tried to sabotage your draft of the president’s address to the teacher’s union last year?”

Sam wilted back against his pillows.

CJ looked at Toby. “I’m coming too.”

Toby nodded with grim satisfaction.

The arrival of Dr. Baines halted all plots for revenge. Baines took in the newcomers in surprise, then continued towards Sam’s bed.

“I see we have some guests,” he commented lightly. He set a peak flow meter on the table beside Sam’s bed and moved the breakfast tray to the side. “I hope we’re not aiding and abetting in a second jailbreak.”

“A _second_ jailbreak?” Josh echoed.

Sam winced at the three glares being directed his way. “There wasn’t technically a _first_ one.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Baines pointed out, consulting notes in Sam’s chart and checking his current readouts on the various machines. He glanced over at Sam. “Do you want your friends to step out for this?”

“Step out for what?” CJ asked. “What are you doing?”

“Measuring how my lungs are doing,” Sam answered. He looked up at Baines. “They can stay.”

Baines nodded. “All right. According to your file, and based on what you described earlier, I’d bet easy money that you’ve been in the yellow this week if you’d checked your flow. Let’s see where you are right now. You know the drill?” He picked up the meter and held it out to Sam.

Sam took the meter, checked its setting, then lifted the narrow end to his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he blew out as hard as he could

Stars sparkled and burst before his eyes. Sam felt his head start to spin again, and his eyes slipped shut. Baines’ hands steadied him and the meter, then withdrew to record the results.

“Good, Sam,” Baines said. “When you’re ready, go again.”

“ _Again_?” Josh cried.

Sam opened his eyes and found three pale faces staring at him in concern, all traces of the earlier anger gone.

“It’s part of the test,” Baines explained patiently. “Highest of three readings.”

Sam adjusted the meter and blew into it a second time. Anxious to get it over with, he didn’t wait as long and blew as hard as he could a third time. Sam handed the meter back to Baines and sank wearily back against his pillows. Baines placed the oxygen mask over Sam’s face before writing the results in Sam’s chart.

“Well?” Josh asked anxiously.

Baines gave Sam a questioning look. Sam nodded.

“You’re hovering at about sixty percent of your personal best,” Baines explained. “That puts you still in the yellow range. Based on that and you O2 sat readings, I’m not comfortable releasing you right now.”

“So what happens now?” Toby asked.

“I’d like to keep Sam on oxygen and IV medication for a few more hours,” Baines said. “Just until he’s a little more stable. We’ll do another peak flow test this afternoon. If he measures over seventy percent and can walk from one end of the room to the other without feeling dizzy, I’ll release him.”

Toby nodded.

CJ patted Sam’s arm. “It’s just as well,” she told him. “Even _if_ you were being released right now, Dr. Bartlet’s banned you from the White House today. She’s got every available custodian, cleaning service, and intern airing out the entire building to make sure all traces of the incense is gone.”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked over at Toby, then at Josh for confirmation. Josh nodded.

“That’s going to be a big help,” Baines stated. “All right; I’m going to let you get back to your visit. Don’t forget to finish breakfast, and I’ll see you in a little while.”

He wheeled the breakfast tray back into place over Sam’s knees, bid everyone goodbye, and left.

An awkward silence filled the void the doctor had left. Sam idly began tearing his bagel into smaller chunks as he tried to find the words his friends needed to hear.

A hand settled over Sam’s, stilling his fidgeting. Sam looked up, expecting to see Josh and was surprised to find Toby watching him.

“We may be pissed off at you not telling us you have asthma, but we’re not pissed off because you _have_ asthma,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

Sam nodded slowly, unable to look away from Toby’s eyes.

“We’ll eventually get over being angry,” Toby continued. “And then we’ll handle it like we handle everything else. But if you _ever_ hide an attack or something like it from us ever again, I will kick your ass from one side of the West Wing to the other. You got me?”

“Hear hear,” Josh agreed.

Sam nodded again, then glanced at CJ and Josh. He looked all three of his friends in the eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just . . . I’ve always handled this on my own. It wasn’t worth worrying you guys about.”

“Well, we’ll agree to disagree on that,” Josh told him.

“As much as we’d love to stay, we’ve got Senior Staff soon,” Toby stated, drawing back from Sam. “Leo pushed it back so we could come see you, but his benevolence will only last so long.”

“I’m telling him you said that,” CJ teased.

Sam tensed suddenly. “Toby, about Shaw-.”

“Don’t you worry about him,” Toby said firmly. “He’s always saying he wants your job. I find myself in need of a temporary deputy today. Maybe it’s about time he tried it on.”

Sam was startled at the statement. Unbidden, he felt worry and his own self-doubt begin to rise.

CJ’s smile turned wicked. “You’re going to make his life a living hell, aren’t you? I want in.”

Toby smirked at Sam. “See if he still thinks your job is a walk in the park when I’m through with him.”

“You know, I bet Donna would be interested in hearing what he’s been up to,” Josh commented. “She might have a few things to say.”

The worry and doubt slipped away. Sam _almost_ felt sorry for Shaw.

Almost.

“We’ll swing by later and bring lunch,” Josh told Sam. “If the doctor decides to release you before we get here, give me a call and I’ll come and take you home.”

“Thanks guys,” Sam told them. He smiled at his friends. “Really, I . . . I appreciate you.”

“Oh, you’re still in the doghouse,” Toby replied as the three senior staffers made their way to the door. “Shaw’s just higher on my list right now, but you’ll get your turn. Don’t worry.”

Despite the truth of the threat, Sam couldn’t help but laugh as he waved goodbye.

_TBC_


	5. Friday

**_Friday_ **

Josh guided his car into his usual parking spot and turned off the engine. He glanced over at his passenger, who had barely uttered two words since he’d picked him up.

“Ready?” Josh asked.

Sam smiled absently, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Yeah, of course,” he replied. “Thanks again for picking me up.”

“No problem.” Josh studied his friend. “You sure you’re all right?”

Sam nodded and opened his door. “I’m fine,” he replied, sliding out of the car.

Josh jumped out of the car and jogged around the back, joining Sam as the younger man began heading into the building. “You got your inhaler, right?”

Sam glanced at him. “You asked me that when you picked me up.”

Josh shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to be sure.”

They joined the other staffers and interns heading into the West Wing, waiting their turn to sign in. Sam immediately picked up a faint chemical smell in the air and recalled CJ’s words about Abbey making sure the incense was cleared out of the building.

As Sam moved to sign in, he realized that Josh was watching him again. He bit back an annoyed huff while he scribbled his name for the security guard. “I’m _fine_ , Josh.”

Josh’s signature joined his. “The bleach or whatever they used was pretty strong yesterday; I can still smell them.”

“They’ve never bothered me before,” Sam pointed out, heading in the direction of his office.

“They’ve never been used to douse the building before,” Josh countered.

Sam stopped abruptly and turned to face Josh. “This, right here? This is part of the reason I kept my asthma to myself. I don’t need you or anyone else hovering over me. I’m _fine_.”

Josh folded his arms, his brow furrowing. “Yeah, well, the rules tend to change when you’re hauled out of here in an ambulance while the rest of us were blissfully unaware you were having a problem.”

The reminder took the wind right out of Sam’s sails, and his shoulders slumped. “Josh, _I’m fine_ ,” he insisted. “What happened the other day was a freak occurrence. My last major attack was _years_ ago. You don’t need to watch me every second of the day.”

“I’m not planning to watch you every second,” Josh stated.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not?”

“Sam!”

Sam jumped slightly at Toby’s shout.

Josh smirked. “Nope. Not by myself, anyway.”

“Sam!”

Josh patted Sam on the arm. “You better not keep Toby waiting. I’ll see you in half an hour for Senior Staff.”

Sam glared after him, but a third bellow from his boss spurred him into the communications bullpen. He dropped his coat in his office and hurried next door.

“You called?” he asked, a hint of bite in his tone.

Toby was unimpressed. “What’s your peak flow today?”

Sam blinked at him. Whatever he’d thought Toby was going to ask, that hadn’t been it. “Uh . . . what?”

If possible, Toby’s scowl intensified. “Your peak flow. Did you measure it today?”

“Um . . .” Sam wondered if he’d accidentally stepped into an alternate dimension. ‘Not yet.”

“What about last night?” Toby pressed.

“They measured it before I was released,” Sam told him.

“Dr. Baines said he wants your peak flow recorded twice a day until your follow up appointment in a week,” Toby informed him. “If you didn’t do it before you left, when were you planning to do it?”

Sam frowned. “I know what he said; I was there,” he replied. “Funny enough, I don’t remember _you_ being there. Did Josh-?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” Toby said.

“I was going to do it at lunch,” Sam stated.

“Our schedule it too unpredictable, and you’ve got a habit of skipping lunch,” Toby told him. “See that clipboard?”

Sam turned his head left and right before seeing a clipboard hanging on the wall beside the door. Attached to it was a chart that, upon closer scrutiny, had dates, times, and boxes for recording information on it.

“Every morning until your appointment, your first stop is in here where you will measure and record your peak flow,” Toby told him. “You’ll do it again at four-thirty every afternoon. I’ve already had Cathy put it on your schedule so there won’t be any conflicts.”

Sam turned back to Toby. “This really isn’t necessary-,” he began.

Toby finally stood and moved around his desk to stand in front of Sam, arms folded. “You sat in this office two days ago, coughing. You could have told me right then. You chose not to.”

Indignation was hard to hold onto in the face of shame and regret. Sam lowered his eyes.

“So,” Toby continued. “Until such time as Dr. Baines declares you back to normal- or as normal as it’s possible for you to be- you’ll stick to this schedule.” He moved back to his desk.

Sam glanced at the clipboard again, then back to Toby. “Toby, I-.”

Toby suddenly tossed something through the air at him. Sam reached up and instinctively caught it. He did a double take at seeing a peak flow meter in his hand.

“No more talking,” Toby ordered. “Blow.”

Sam was recording his second reading when Toby’s phone rang. Toby answered it, listening to whoever was on the other end, then hung up. Standing, he moved to look at the numbers Sam had written down. Sam idly wondered if Toby knew what they meant.

“Leo wants to see you in his office before Senior Staff,” Toby told him. “Grab what you need for the meeting and head on over.”

Sam nodded, setting the meter on Toby’s bookshelf before he returned to his office for his folio and notes.

Several people greeted Sam on his way to Leo’s office, welcoming him back warmly and asking after his health. Sam responded politely but picked up his pace with every well-wisher, hoping to avoid as many of them as possible. While he appreciated their concern, he was desperate for everything to continue as it had before his asthma attack.

Margaret looked up from her computer at his entrance and smiled brightly. “Good morning, Sam. He’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Margaret,” Sam replied, reaching for the doorknob.

“Can I get you anything?” Margaret continued. “Water? Coffee? Tea?”

Sam felt the prickles of a blush begin in his cheeks. “No, thank you, Margaret. I’m fine.”

He hurried into Leo’s office and closed the door before Margaret could rattle off more items to offer him. “You wanted to see me, Leo?” he asked, then froze.

Leo was leaning against the front of his desk, arms folded. In front of him sat CJ and George Shaw, glaring at each other. Sam had the distinct feeling that he had walked into the middle of an argument.

CJ’s glare softened as she nodded silently in his direction. George’s glare, on the other hand, seemed to sharpen when he met Sam’s questioning look.

“Sam, thank you for coming so quickly,” Leo greeted. “How are you feeling?”

Sam wondered if he would continue to feel off-kilter all day as everyone acted slightly off-character. “I’m fine, Leo, thanks. What’s up?”

“Two things,” Leo told him. He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and passed it over to Sam. “First, take a look at this and give me your thoughts.”

Sam took the paper and gave it a quick scan. Frowning, he slowed down and read it again, wincing at some of the phrasing. “Is this a press release?” he asked.

“It is,” Leo confirmed.

Sam read over it a third time. “It’s not . . . it’s not _wrong_ , but the language needs cleaning up a bit.”

CJ grinned smugly at George. George folded his arms sullenly.

“Is this for the midday briefing, CJ?” Sam asked.

CJ nodded. “Yeah. Can you fix it up for me?”

Sam nodded, balancing the paper on his folio and patting his pockets for a pen. Leo passed him one, which Sam took with a distracted ‘thanks’ and began crossing out several words and replacing them with new phrases. After a few short minutes, he held up the paper, reread the statement, then passed it back to Leo.

Leo immediately gave it to CJ, who read through it. She nodded and smiled. “Thanks, Sam. That’s much clearer.”

Sam turned his attention back to Leo. “You mentioned two things?”

“Yeah.” Leo glanced at CJ. “CJ, would you mind stepping outside for just a minute?”

“Of course.” CJ stood and walked past Sam, squeezing his arm affectionately and heading out of the office.

Leo handed Sam another piece of paper. “Mr. Shaw here feels that Toby has been unfairly burdening him with a heavy workload,” he stated. “Could you look at this list and tell me if that’s true?”

Sam frowned and took the paper, reading over the assignments and their due dates. He gave the list an additional scan in case he had missed something in the first glance. “Er . . . these are all from my inbox,” he stated. “I’m not sure what the problem is.”

George swelled up indignantly and opened his mouth. Without looking away from Sam, Leo held up a hand to Shaw, stopping the protest before it came out.

“Without delegating any of it, how long do you think it would take you to complete it?” Leo asked him.

Sam ran through several mental calculations. “Without any meetings scheduled, or any last minute emergencies? Probably lunch. Two o’clock at the latest, if you include standard revisions.”

“Oh, come _on_!” George jumped to his feet and spun to face Sam. “That’s a lie! He’s clearly in on it with Toby!”

Sam was at a complete loss. “In on _what_?” he demanded, feeling his own temper begin to rise at the accusations George was preparing to level at Toby.

“It’s bad enough that I’m being assigned way more work than is possible in one day, but having to redo perfectly good drafts a dozen times?” George cried. “This is clearly a plan to sabotage me, and _you’re_ in on it!” He took a step towards Sam.

Leo straightened and effortlessly slid in between George and Sam at the move. “Mr. Shaw, whatever you may believe, I can assure you that our Communications department is far too busy to invent tasks for you. Clearly, Toby Ziegler is not padding your workload. If anything, he isn’t giving you _enough_ to do. I suggest that if you have difficulties completing your assignments, you take it up with him.”

George’s face was growing redder by the second. “This isn’t over!” he ground out around clenched teeth.

“It is for now,” Leo said firmly. “If I were you, I’d find my way back to my desk as soon as possible.”

George looked as if he wanted to argue the point further, but wisely chose to take the out. He stomped past the two senior staffers, flung the door open, and continued down the hall. Outside, CJ watched him go and hurried back into Leo’s office.

“Your meeting clearly didn’t go his way,” she commented.

“I’m not entirely sure what just happened,” Sam admitted.

“Mr. Shaw decided to go above Toby’s head on a few things, and I used you to make a point,” Leo told him. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“How’re you feeling?” CJ asked Sam. “Do you need anything?”

“For everyone to believe me when I tell them I’m fine,” Same replied wearily. “Really; _please_ stop worrying.”

“Fat chance, Spanky,” CJ said. “The press corps also sends their well wishes, by the way. Someone found out about the ambulance, and the questions started rolling in during the mid-morning briefing yesterday. Don’t be surprised if some of them stop you and ask how you’re doing.”

“Let’s move this next door,” Leo told them, leading them across the room towards the Oval Office.

Sam blushed at CJ’s words. “The _press corps_ knows? Oh God, could this get any more _embarrassing_?”

They were the first to arrive for the meeting. Bartlet was standing behind his desk, speaking about something with Abbey. As soon as they noticed Sam enter the room, their conversation stopped and Abbey immediately moved to Sam’s side.

“Sam, come over here and let me take a look at you,” she ordered, taking his arm and leading him to one of the couches.

Unfortunately, Josh and Toby arrived as she began to take his pulse and they flocked to Sam’s side.

“Is everything okay?” Josh demanded. “He was fine when we got here.”

“His peak flow numbers were fine,” Toby added.

CJ smirked over Toby’s shoulder down at Sam. “Looks like it can,” she told him.

Sam cast pleading blue eyes over at an amused Bartlet, silently asking for help. Bartlet chuckled and waved everyone to their seats.

“All right, all right, leave the poor kid alone,” he said. “Abbey, don’t you have that meeting with Senator Carson in twenty minutes?”

“You know I do,” Abbey said, straightening. “Okay Sam, your pulse and your breathing sounds fine. If that changes, don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Yes ma’am,” Sam agreed, his face aflame.

Abbey moved to kiss her husband goodbye before leaving the office. Bartlet collected a folder from his desk and claimed his usual chair.

“Let’s get started,” he began. He passed the folder to Toby. “Toby, I don’t know who the hell wrote this, but it’s garbage. If I read that in front of the economic policy advisors, they’ll take away my doctorate.”

Toby nodded, an oddly satisfied look on his face. “Yes, sir. We’ll get this fixed right away.”

Sam gave Toby a quizzical look, but Toby wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Much to Sam’s relief, the rest of their meeting progressed as normal. Other than Bartlet expressing that he was glad Sam was back at work, Sam began to feel himself get back on track.

As soon as they were dismissed, Sam hurried over to Toby’s side. “Do you need a hand with the draft to the economic advisors?” he asked, half-expecting to be told no.

“Yeah,” Toby replied. “I’ll send you the highlights. Can you get it to me by one o’clock?”

“Of course,” Sam replied. He hesitated for a moment, then blazed ahead with his question. “Toby, about Shaw-.”

Toby gave him a side-eyed glance. “Didn’t I tell you not to worry about him?”

Sam ignored the question. “I get what you’re trying to do. I even appreciate it. But why did you have him write the president’s address to the economic advisors? You know his background is stronger in scientific positions, not math.”

“Who said I gave it to Shaw?” Toby asked mildly.

“I saw his assignments,” Sam replied.

Toby stopped walking and turned to face Sam fully. “Why were you looking at his assignments?”

“Leo asked me about them,” Sam answered. “It doesn’t matter. Look; I get the point you’re trying to make with him. But why did you give his first draft to the president?”

“I didn’t give the president the first draft,” Toby replied. “I gave him the fourteenth.”

Sam blinked, stunned. “His _fourteenth_?”

Toby nodded, the faintest edge of a sly smile gracing the corners of his mouth. “Yep.”

Sam shook off his shock. “Okay . . . be that as it may, the president’s address is on Monday, and the president hasn’t even had a chance to review it yet. Aren’t you worried? I mean, proving a point to Shaw is one thing, but at the expense of economic policy . . .”

“You don’t think the president could carry on a conversation about economics?” Toby asked in surprise. “Are you _sure_ you’re okay to come back?”

Sam didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “Toby.”

“What?” Toby asked, continuing the trek back to their bullpen. “I’m not worried.”

“Why not?” Sam asked, scrambling to keep up.

Toby paused by Bonnie’s desk. “Hey, Bonnie, could you have Shaw come to my office as soon as possible, please?”

“Sure, Toby.” The glint in the assistant’s eyes made Sam wonder if Josh had followed through on his threat to tell Donna what George had been up to. The thought had barely crossed his mind when Sam decided that he was better off not knowing.

“You’re not worried?” Sam asked again.

Toby continued into his office, Sam on his heels. “Of course not,” he replied. “I knew you’d be back in time to work on it today.”

The unexpected compliment and the matter-of-fact confidence in the way it was delivered stole Sam’s words. His mouth hung open, snapping shut when George arrived in the office with what was becoming a permanent scowl on his face.

“Bonnie said you wanted to see me,” he told Toby, paying no attention whatsoever to Sam.

Toby tossed the folder he had carried from the Oval Office at George. George managed to keep hold of it, fumbling a bit as pages started to slide out. “The president kicked back your draft on Monday’s speech. Do it again.”

George’s body tensed, anger clear in his expression. “There’s nothing wrong with my speech.”

“The Nobel Laureate in Economics disagrees,” Toby replied curtly. “Do it again.”

Fine tremors erupted over George’s limbs. “I know what this is,” he spat out. “This is some sort of revenge plot. You want to take me down a few pegs because you’re afraid of how good I really am.”

To Sam’s surprise, Toby didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he settled himself down in his chair behind his desk and sifted through the messages that had been left there in his absence. “Have you finished the position paper on the newest update on farm subsidies yet?”

The folder was beginning to crease in George’s clenching hands. “How can I _finish_ anything when you keep making me redo everything?”

Toby’s eyes snapped up to George, and Sam was left with the impression of a predator about to close in on its prey. 

“Are you telling me that you are unable to complete your duties as assigned?” Toby asked, his tone deceptively mild.

“I’m telling you that _no one_ could complete these duties as assigned, _despite_ the questionable word of your deputy!” George exploded. “Your expectations are ridiculous! _No one_ could _possibly_ complete the kind of workload you’re giving me with the timeline you’ve attached!”

“It’s actually quite reasonable as long as you only have to write the speech once or twice,” Toby stated.

“It’s not _my_ fault that you can’t see good writing when it’s in front of you!” George shouted. He threw the folder down onto Toby’s desk. “I’m not rewriting it! It’s fine the way it is!”

“Fine,” Toby said.

That drew George up short. “Fine?” he echoed, confused.

Toby nodded. “Fine.” He picked up the folder and held it out to Sam, who only took it out of reflex. “Sam will fix it.”

Sam had never actually _seen_ anyone’s face turn purple with rage, but he was witnessing it now.

“Fine!” George snatched the folder out of Sam’s hands and tore out of the room.

Sam watched him go, then turned back to Toby. “You, uh . . . you didn’t fire him?”

“No.” Toby was reading through his messages once more.

“You . . . you said you wanted to,” Sam stated, his mind trying and failing to figure out what he had just witnessed.

Toby shrugged. “Yeah, but firing him would only give me a moment’s satisfaction. I’ve been enjoying this since yesterday.”

Sam considered Toby’s words, then thought about all the trouble George had given him in the past and decided to let it go. “You’re having him rewrite the economic policy draft?”

“Yes,” Toby answered.

“But you asked _me_ to write it,” Sam continued.

“I did.”

Sam thought about that. “You’re going to make Shaw rewrite a speech that won’t be used?”

Toby grabbed a half-full legal pad from beside his keyboard and flipped through it. “Oh, it’s being used. As a teaching tool. Think maybe by the twentieth draft he’ll learn he isn’t as good as he thinks he is?”

“Either that, or he’ll quit,” Sam quipped.

Toby looked up at him. “Sounds like a win-win situation to me.”

Sam felt a warm glow rise in his chest at the thought of his friend looking out for him. “Toby-.”

“One o’clock,” Toby interrupted. “Get on it.”

Sam smiled and nodded, returning to his office.

“And don’t make me chase you down at four-thirty for your next peak flow check or I’ll send Cathy after you!” Toby yelled after him.

A snort of amusement escaped Sam as he sat down behind his desk. Powering his computer on, he turned his attention to the work waiting for him in his inbox.

THE END


End file.
